I am trying to live by applying the concept of radical honesty to my life. Here is the first of those- https://fulcrumandaxis.com/2025/08/13/radical-honesty-porn/
Love has always been hard for me.
I’ve always wanted it—especially with a kind, loving woman—but I’ve just as often felt like it was unattainable. Kept at arm’s length. Not meant for me in some way.
Dayna was the first person I kissed. I was eighteen—maybe nineteen—by the time it happened. Later than most people I knew. I’ve carried some sadness about that, some shame even, like it says something about my worth. But in that moment, I didn’t care. Someone I wanted actually wanted me back, at least for a little while.
If you’ve read The Cancer Diet, you already know pieces of that story. I won’t rehash it in full, because some wounds don’t need to be picked open again. But I’ll say this: Dayna became the blueprint for so many of my relationships after her. The first time I mistook intensity for permanence. The first time love got tangled with pain, confusion, and betrayal—and I stayed anyway.
She was kind, at first. Open, warm, magnetic. I felt seen by her in a way I hadn’t felt seen before. And when she hurt me—deeply—I still couldn’t walk away. We stayed in each other’s orbit. Maybe we were trying to recreate what broke. Maybe we just didn’t know how to fully let go. I told myself I was over her, but I wasn’t. Everyone around me could see it, and they hated it. They judged it. But the truth is, their relationships were messy too. I just wore mine out in the open.
What made Dayna different is that I never really knew how she felt. Not for sure. I guessed. I hoped. I assumed. I doubted. Until years later—years—when I found out that yes, she had loved me. That I hadn’t made it all up. That underneath the chaos, the feelings were real. We ended up emotionally cheating on our spouses. That part isn’t something I’m proud of, but it’s the truth. Eventually it all unraveled, as things like that do.
But weirdly, I don’t carry regret about Dayna. I carry understanding. That relationship taught me something about how I form attachments. About how I cling to what once made me feel safe. About how I confuse devotion with destiny. About how I mistake pain for depth.
The lesson was hard. But I learned it. I hope.
I don’t want to repeat that pattern. And yet, I see the shapes of it when I get close to someone new: that quick devotion, that hunger to be chosen, that fear that if I don’t latch on now, I’ll lose them forever. That’s not love. That’s an echo of something I’m still trying to grow out of.
Now: Practicing Distance
There’s someone I’ve known for a while.
In the past, a connection like this—familiar, intense, tinged with possibility—would have been my cue to dive in headfirst. I would have told myself I was “just being a friend” while quietly hoping for more, even if the situation was complicated or already claimed by someone else.
But this time, I made different choices. I was honest about feeling a connection, but I didn’t turn it into a pursuit. I didn’t start stacking little moments in my head as proof of some inevitable outcome. I didn’t start waiting in the wings.
She’s in a relationship again, and not one I’d choose for her. That’s her life. In the past, I would have stayed close anyway—telling myself I was helping, when really I was just hurting in slow motion. This time, I stepped back. Not with anger. Not to punish. But to protect myself.
It’s not about rejecting friendship. It’s about knowing when friendship is the mask I use to hide my attachment. I can’t pretend that pattern hasn’t cost me before. I can’t keep investing in situations that chip away at me.
So I’m practicing something I’ve never been good at:
Caring without clutching.
Offering space without filling it with my own need.
Letting someone matter to me without making them the measure of my worth.
Even if I stumble, that’s still a step forward.
Closing: What I Know Right Now
If you asked me what healthy love looks like, I’d have to tell you the truth: I’m not sure. I know I need new—not a rerun of the old storylines I’ve been stuck in. I know it has to be built on communication, mutual attraction, sexual connection, and long-term plans. All of those things matter.
If you asked me what I’m ready for, my first instinct would be to say nothing. To hide myself away. But I know that instinct is part of the problem. The relationships I am ready for—if I’m honest—are with people who are also trying to grow, who are willing to talk through things and put in the work with me.
Have I ever felt safe in love? No. Not once. Maybe I could have, if I’d been more honest from the start in certain relationships. But life didn’t hand me that version of the story.
When I imagine being fully loved, what comes to mind isn’t comfort—it’s doubt and fear. That’s the truth right now.
What I know now that I didn’t know before is that my patterns and perceptions aren’t always reality. That’s the hard part. I can’t just trust the first story my mind tells me about love, about people, about myself. I have to stop, question it, and be willing to see things differently.
I’m still learning. Still unlearning. Still figuring out what it means to be in love without disappearing into it—or keeping it so far away that it never has a chance.
That’s where I am. Not the beginning. Not the end. Somewhere in the middle, trying to get it right this time.
Frank M. Anderson's Writing 
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